


Playing Hard to Want

by gottapenny (dickjokesanddoilies)



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, background Baberoe, bobfic2020, bobtogether
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickjokesanddoilies/pseuds/gottapenny
Summary: "David was already not looking forward to seeing Joe again once he was finally let out of the hospital. Every day that he spent lying on that bed felt like a new nail added to his coffin, yet another tiny spike in Liebgott’s hatred of him. And truthfully Joe had hated David before he’d even done anything wrong, so now that he had… "Prompt: There was only one bed
Relationships: Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @speirtons on tumblr for organizing this #bobtogether fic event, and therefore kicking my ass back into proper writing gear!

David was already not looking forward to seeing Joe again once he was finally let out of the hospital. Every day that he spent lying on that bed felt like a new nail added to his coffin, yet another tiny spike in Liebgott’s hatred of him. And truthfully Joe had hated David before he’d even _done_ anything wrong, so now that he had… He shuddered at the thought. The street sign boasting Haganeu blared in his peripheral like a neon warning sign. Bitterly, he mulled over the unfairness that his one motivator as he was healing up (returning back to the 101st) was now something of a cold dread in his stomach. His friendship with Joe, too, had been shot in the dirt before he’d even gotten the chance to try.

The icy ball continued to roll around in David’s stomach as he called out to George Luz, so very relieved to see a friendly face that wasn’t frowning and somber and pitying, only to have the usually animated man respond tiredly. And it just got worse, and worse, and worse. He couldn’t seem to stop his big, fat mouth from opening; asking where’s Hoobler? How’s about Toye or Wild Bill? Where’d that cheeky little Julien kid get off to now? Nobody said a word, and it spoke miles. Finally Foley and Martin ground out something about how thin 2nd platoon had become, and David was shooed away like a buzzing gnat. 

He swore under his breath as he walked up to the next Jeep and was instantly pinned in place by mean, dark eyes. The second Joe recognized him as more than just “anonymous annoyance”, he was rolling those glittering eyes, and David resented him for looking so pretty while doing it. It felt surreal to finally take in those near-black eyes that shone in the foggy french sunlight like pebbles in person once more, rather than just using his best memory to muse over them in his hospital bed. 

David has had a long time to mull over those eyes that narrowed into repulsed little slits as some unfamiliar face finally yanked David up into the remaining empty space. Four months, according to that red sneering mouth, which was news to him. In the first month, he’d kept count, anxious to get back to his platoon and his friends (and Lieb, of course). But around the second time that the nurses had none-too gently told him that if he left, the infection would kill him before he got another chance to play hero, David had become disheartened enough that he just let the days and weeks roll by sluggishly. Joe’s pissy remark: “Must’ve like that hospital.” almost made him collapse into hysterical laughter. 

That hospital room was never ending purgatory; solitary confinement. He lay there in his soaked through clothes and waited to die a meaningless, empty death. Dozens of times he’d pictured his father's reaction upon receiving the letter. Dull, bloodshot eyes would scan over the words: “died of his wounds”, and “taken off the frontline due to his own lack of awareness” and his father would chuckle meanly. Mutter how he’d been right to tell David he’d never make it out there, and “oh I hate to speak ill of the dead and say I told ya so!” The peeling off-white wallpaper and fleshy toned curtains plagued his nightmares still; Normandy felt like a tropical getaway in comparison. He opened his mouth to tell Joe that, and see that shit eating smirk slide off his pale face with satisfaction, but looking at him gave David pause. 

Beneath those pretty, glinting eyes were heavy bags so purple they could’ve been mistaken for bruises at first glance. His O.D.s and face were dirty-which was nothing new- but seeing Joe’s hair a stringy, careless mess sent something of a shock through David. Kind of like Perconte’s dental fixation, David has always been able to spot Liebgott from a mile away simply because it was clear that, even as his bloody bandages soaked through, the man took a few moments each day to make sure his thick, dark hair was still soft and touchable looking. 

...Alright, so maybe David was just projecting there. 

Regardless, he looked like HELL. Which felt oh, so wrong. David has always admired how unaffected he’d seemed by the war, both physically and mentally, and his guts twisted as he watched those long, oddly dainty fingers bring a cigarette to his lips. They were _shaking_. And it’s not like it was exactly cold out. 

Feeling nauseous, his gaze moved unabidden to Heffron. Unkept, ruddy stubble dotted the usually chipper replacement’s thin face, and the shine appeared to have left his bright eyes. Dirty bandaged fingertips poked out of olive gloves that looked like the kid had torn the fingers off of himself. And he was quiet; so fucking quiet.If there was one thing David knew about Philly boys, it was that you could never get them to stop yapping even if krauts were peppering them in an empty field. He was unsettled by not hearing Babe’s squeaking, weird little giggles or Bill’s cartoonish cackling carrying on the wind. Honest to God, it didn’t even feel much like Easy anymore. No Luz attempting what had to be the worst British accent he’d ever heard or Toye bitching about whatever new thing had popped into his head. None of Muck trying out an hour's worth of garish standup while Penkala and Malarkey giggled like prepubescent hyenas. Just empty uniforms and the stench of stale cigarette smoke remained. 

* * *

Tracking down Lipton was a welcome distraction, as were the multiple near-death experiences on his way to the abandoned house he was posted up in. Something downright neurotic in him took _comfort_ in the return of the bone rattling violence. Even as he was forced to dive away from a near-direct hit, which sent stabbing hot pains through his thigh, his heart soared with a sick kind of glee at the taste of dirt in his mouth. _This_ solidified that he was really, truly back in the fight; it was as terrifying as it was liberating. 

Lt. Speirs previously from Dog Company and Lipton signed David’s execution by reconfirming that, yes, he was being reassigned to 2nd platoon. And, as a bonus, he’d acquired a squeaky clean West Pointer to babysit! Oh joy. Well, at least by comparison, David no longer felt so much like a replacement. The moment he’d laid eyes on that fancy graduation ring, he was filled with a perverse sense of relief. _Oh, the toccoa boys are sure gonna have a field day with you, Lieutenant Jones._ David felt like a little kid who’d desperately joined in on hazing the new kid, all in the vain hopes that the other boys might pick on him a little less. 

Any sort of relief David was feeling vanished as he faced down his former friend’s critical gazes, bitterness radiating off them in thick, rolling waves. Wordlessly, he tossed his bag unto an empty upper bunk, and took a deep breath before turning back to the men. 

“This seat taken?” 

For some reason, that had Ramirez chuckling and had Chuck swearing and rolling his eyes. Everyone in the little huddle swung their gazes over to Liebgott, who seemingly always had something to say, especially for Webster. He fidgeted anxiously as Joe took his sweet time sucking on his Lucky Strike like a popsicle, blowing a stream of smoke out of pursed, cherry lips so slowly that David dug his nails into his uninjured thigh. 

“They’re all fuckin taken, Web. This look like a fuckin presidential fuckin suite to you? I know you’re so used to yer cushy hospital digs what with big canned nurses shaking their tits in your face-“ 

He walked away before he’d even heard the end of Joe’s rant, dripping with acidic hatred that made the blood in David’s ears ring. He knew if he stood around any longer that he’d punch Joe right in his handsome, artfully carved goddamned face. And as badly as Joe wanted it, he wasn’t the enemy right now. 

Far fucking from it actually. 

****

David could feel drying blood underneath his fingernails as he stumbled back into the dilapidated house, wondering if it were Kraut blood or Jackson’s. His head leant against the side of his/not his bunk with a dull thud that didn’t even register. Mentally, he was still kneeling by Jackson’s side, framing the sides of the boy’s head with his fingers as he pleaded for the kid to calm down. He’d told Jackson it was gonna be okay, that everything would be fine once Doc showed up. But jokes on them; Doc had shown up and Jackson was dead, dead, dead. 

He repeated it aloud when they were quietly asked about the mission’s “success”. The mission’s fucking SUCCESS; god David had to laugh. Two German prisoners captured sure, but it felt like a monumental fucking loss from where he was standing. 20 fucking years old…

“Yeah we heard.”

Came Joe’s voice, breaking through the haze of blood and shouting and gunpowder. It was surprisingly gentle, softer than he could ever recall hearing him speak before. And for some reason _that_ is what nearly made David crumple. Not watching a kid begging to live, not listening to McClung tearfully screaming and pointing a shaking sidearm at the German’s heads, just Joe Fucking Liebgott not treating him like a smear on the treads of his government issued boots for once. Quietly, David excuses himself, walked casually to the ransacked bathroom, and violently puked up bile until he couldn’t even feel the muscles in his throat.

* * *

A few hours of shaking and vomiting later, and he shuffled in the pitch black room towards the bunk beds. Blindly, he made sure to step as lightly as possible (which was quite a feat for the heavy-footed man), and reached out with searching fingers for his bed. The moment fingertips made contact with scratchy, piling sheets, David hauled his weary body on to the mattress, only to be met by the sensation of something sharp digging into his side. For one crazed moment, he thought he’d stabbed himself with a bayonet that wasn’t on his person, and his hand trembled as he flickered his lighter on expecting to see crimson staining through his jacket. Honestly, he’d have preferred the sight of him slowly bleeding out to what he did see bathed in the orangey dim light. 

Half moon eyelashes so dark and thick they looked like ink blots curved against moonbeam cheekbones. Thin, dark eyebrows not scrunched down in irritation for once, and a smooth forehead oddly absent of worry lines. And of course, chapped but also sinfully flushed-looking lips, thin but shapely, barely parted and emitting sweet sighs. Liebgott, with his ridiculously bony elbows jabbing into his ribs he was so close, looking like a goddamned Rembrandt. Too stunned to speak (or even breathe), he gently grasped Joe’s elbow (“ _Christ, so fragile; felt like it might snap if he wasn’t careful”)_ with the intention of putting some space between them. Cherubic, slumbering Lieb had other ideas, apparently, because the second David started to apply pressure, skinny little fingers were suddenly clutching his bicep and hauling David closer. _Mary, Mother of Jesus_ , it took everything in him not to scream as the unconscious bane of his existence wrapped himself around David with all four of his sinewy limbs. 

He whipped his head to the side fearfully as sleeping Joe wedged his thigh between David’s with such a kittenish little sigh it made David’s face flush neon. Small mercies, all of the other men were slumbering, albeit restlessly. Upon second glance, actually, David was relieved to see he wasn’t the only one sharing a bunk. Heffron lay curled up small and sad on Chuck’s big, barrel chest, but there was something distinctly platonic about the pair somehow. Unlike the little wriggling motions that Joe was using to systematically ensure David’s early grave. 

He double, then triple checked that the slighter man was actually asleep and not fucking with David’s head in the most goddamned _insane_ fashion imaginable as bony, calloused fingers knot themselves into his dog tags with a white-knuckled grip. This had to be a joke, or a hallucination. Maybe he’d been hit by some wayward shrapnel and he was actually bleeding out on the bank like that kraut. 

David couldn’t have imagined this even in his four-month stockpile of wet dreams, which Joe had increasingly intruded upon (read: starred in). In those, it was never this based in reality. Usually it was just snapshots: a long, arcing throat with rather specific scarring; the sharpest and deepest Cupid’s bow lips he’d ever seen wrapping themselves around an insult (amongst other things). Dark, bottomless eyes half lidded and digging all the way to David’s core. A scratchy, hissing drawl: “And whattaya gonna do about it, Web?” 

Actually feeling the faint press of those lips through the fabric of his t-shirt and those gorgeous, dark waves tickling the side of his throat made his head spin in a feverish haze. Not to mention the thin, surprisingly-muscular thigh that was occasionally flexing _right_ up against David’s crotch. For the first time, he was thankful for the sharp stinging of his still-tender wound, as he was sure it was the only thing keeping his body from betraying him. Though, again, the downright coquettish way Liebgott was sighing in his ear was trying awful hard to overcome that hurdle. Blue eyes stared their own makeshift skylights into the slatted roof above their heads as David tried to freeze every muscle in his body completely. After the disaster of a patrol, he’d been pretty certain he wouldn’t be sleeping that night. But this little unconscious stunt of Joe’s had absolutely guaranteed that. 

* * *

David woke up the next morning half expecting rust coating the back of his throat as Joe shoved his bayonet down it, or perhaps to the sight of the tendons in those skinny arms flexing as he strung David up from the nearest tree. Instead, David woke up shivering in an empty bed feeling oddly _lonely._ For 24 years, he had woken up in a bed by himself, but this is the first time it had felt wrong. 

Carefully, he shifted himself into a sitting position and tried to shake the feeling of phantom knuckles brushing against his chest, and warm, moist air wetting his throat from lips that were no longer there. Christ, what was happening to him? Still feeling half asleep, he turned his head and was pinned in place by a bewildering sight:

"C'est bon, mon garçon, ça va. C'était un accident ... juste un accident."

Had he not had such a distinctive, thick accent, David would’ve found it hard to believe that was Doc pressed so close to Heffron. Sleep-hazy eyes watched, transfixed, as cracked, pale lips pressed sweet french notions into the crown of Babe’s trembling, red-brown hair. Babe’s gangly, long-limbed body was curled up impressively small, with what appeared like all of his weight pressing down on Gene’s chest. The medic, for all of his scrawny stature, hardly seemed to mind having his back flattened to the mattress by his fellow paratrooper. Dark blue eyes shone with so much love, it rattled David to his core. Did the two of them not know David was still in here with them? Weren’t they terrified of being court marshalled, or worse? His skin tingled, feeling starved for the ghost of Liebgott’s skin on his, as his gaze tracked Roe’s fingers carding through Babe’s thin locks. The two men were so tightly pressed together from chest to toes that they melded into one being. And just when David felt like his reality couldn’t resemble more of a fever dream, something _impossible_ happened. 

“Regarde-moi, ange.” Doc rumbled in a low, sleep-scratchy voice before slowly moving one palm up to cup Babe’s chin. And then, as though it were nothing, suddenly they were kissing. And the way the duo kissed, searching and deep….that didn’t look like the first time they’d done _that_ before. His cheeks flushed when a soft, sweet little moan slid out of those pressing lips-he wasn’t sure which. Okay, so now David was almost positive Doc hadn’t spotted his sleeping form across from Babe’s bunk. He decided to take pity on the guys; this was obviously a very private moment that David had no business seeing. Shifting his weight and clearing his throat, he sat up very gingerly so as not to startle the men too badly. In spite of his best efforts, he felt like a real bastard as he watched all the muscles in Babe’s back stiffen, the redhead ducking his face fearfully into the side of Gene’s neck. “For a grown man, Heffron was weirdly adorable.” David thought to himself absently, unable to connect the small, fragile boy with the sharpshooting killer on the battlefield. 

Gene slowly turned to regard David with a calm, unaffected aire that confused and frightened the groggy young man. The stony faced medic shushed Babe’s faint fretting while those strong, capable hands rubbed paths through fluffy, auburn hair and down the other man’s back. Those dark-washed denim eyes continued to pierce David’s gaze all the while, as though threatening David to open his big, stupid mouth. Of course, David intended to do no such thing (his nighttime activities from last night really gave him no grounds to) and he tried his best to silently convey that in his face. His mother had always told him “his face said everything for him”, so hopefully he’d be able to recall that skillset. Something must’ve clicked, because he watched the icy stare thaw and soften ever so slightly. And then, _then:_ the smug bastard had the gall to wink at him. Well, that certainly went to show David just how threatening Doc Roe found him!

* * *

Once he’d scrambled out of the house with still-wrinkled ODs and a truly wild look in his blue eyes, David had been kind of counting on Joe not being anywhere near him. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the slighter man brooding in some distant alleyway all by his lonesome, smoking like a coal train with that patented scowl on his face. ‘ _Probably brainstorming how best to kill me slowly and painfully…’_ He thought stormily, feeling his stomach twisting yet again. He wasn’t sure why the thought bothered him so much; it’s not like that would be out-of-character or even unlikely that Joe had not been doing that from the minute they’d met. But somehow...after what they’d shared last night… the thought stung something fierce. This was what was swirling through David’s head as he clomped through Haganeu, startled out of his thoughts by bumping roughly into Martin. 

“Webster, you gotta be pullin’ my leg. After that shit you pulled the other day?” The shorter man looked-okay, well, he _always_ looked pissed, but this was a special brand of vinegar that made him itch to immediately cry uncle. 

“Aw, Christ, sir. I’m terribly sorry, honestly, sir. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going…” 

“Clearly,” Johnny scoffed, but to David’s surprise, his tone softened as he mumbled, “Well, I’m guessing you probably didn’t get much sleep last night. I...I didn’t sleep a wink.”

He blinked dumbly at Martin’s abrupt change of heart. Sympathetic words from virtually _anybody_ (but especially Srg. Martin) were so unfamiliar to him that they almost didn’t register to him. Tears threatened to prickle ludicrously at what might’ve been the only show of kindness David had yet to receive since he’d been cleared to go back, and he shook them off so he could offer Martin a respectful nod. 

“I mean, if I said yes, that’d mean I was disobeying Major Winter’s direct orders.” He smiled cheekily, also feeling a bit of a rush addressing Dick by his new title. Inside, he wriggled and preened like a puppy when Martin replied with a faint grin of his own. With a faux-exasperated huff, Johnny reached up and rustled David’s mop of wavy, bed-messy hair before moving past him with a shake of his head. 

The brief interaction made David feel a bit lighter, no longer feeling so weighed down by what he knew was coming: a complete and utter shitstorm. Just then, a nasally, california drawl spiked his eardrums; as if his thoughts had summoned the bastard! 

“No, no, see, Bobby COULD get with any chick ‘e wanted to, but he’s a lil bitch!” 

Oh goodie; Joe appeared to be in yet another scintillating conversation. David couldn’t quite make out Chuck’s reply, but he most definitely heard Joe’s: 

“You daydrinkin’ or somethin’, Chuckie?! Iceman’s like, the most badass one! Cyclops is just posturing! He’s a goddamned nerd!”

Okay, so maybe David was struck slightly that Liebgott even knew what the word ‘posturing’ meant. And that surprise must’ve registered in his face as he did his best to inch past the cluster of 2nd platoon boys, because Ramirez suddenly called out: 

“Somethin’ wrong, Webster?” with a mean, little smirk that had Grant rolling his eyes. David had always appreciated how little Srg. Grant tolerated the rest of his platoon’s relentless pestering of David. Not enough to speak up on his behalf, of course. After all, David was pretty sure that Joe was his best friend aside from maybe Talbert. 

Liebgott’s eyes slowly swung over to acknowledge his presence, and David flinched in preparation for the barrage of insults he was sure were heading his way. Both parties had stopped walking, everyone apart from David and Joe shifting in slight discomfort as the staredown continued. 

“You look like shit, Harvard.” Joe offered finally before bodily knocking his shoulder with David’s. And _this_ one was purposeful. 

The group marched on, gravel crunching beneath their feet in the silence while David stood frozen in the same spot. W-what? That was it? Joe wasn’t even going to-to _acknowledge_ what they’d done?? No, fuck that, what JOE had done to HIM! It wasn’t exactly like David had crawled into _Joe’s_ bunk and-and….

Oh. 

Well, it was kind of like that. But, still! He’d been more than willing to leave and sleep on the frigid basement flooring, but then Joe had started _rubbing_ and _sighing_ and had latched onto David’s arm! Yeah...held him captive...with his slumber-sweet breath and surprisingly petal-soft skin. Jesus Christ, what was he kidding himself? Truth was, they were both at fault here, but only _one_ of them had done so consciously. _Did Liebgott think he was some sort of perverted creep now?_ God, he really wished that Joe had at least made some mention as to his feelings on the situation. Perhaps if he could manage to get the stubborn guy alone. 

* * *

David saw his chances and took it after Dick had informed them that they wouldn’t have to do a second patrol that night, snagging Joe by that sharp, little elbow on his way out the door. He ignored the look of unfiltered disgust on Joe’s face for the time being, swallowing his nerve before he had a fucking heart attack.

“Joe, can we talk? Please? 

He pleaded softly, ignoring how Babe was openly staring at them both as he brushed past them. The tips of his ears and high planes of his cheeks flushed at the sudden reminder that Babe _knew_. What made it worse was Joe’s gaze tracking the color as it spread across David’s face; he seemed unaware that he was even doing it. 

“Why should I listen to anything you have to say, Web?” The question came out choked up, and obviously not as vicious as intended. 

Rather than replying, he simply tugged on Joe’s arm and ushered him away from where Nixon and Winters were still idly watching the interaction. The pair shuffled into a nearby alleyway, and David bit his lip, struggling not to comment on how _easily_ he was able to move Joe around. That undoubtedly would set him off, and cause Joe to storm off before they’d even had a chance to talk. 

Instead, he let go of Joe’s arm hastily, and shifted so that his weight was pressing along the brick wall opposite him. Something on Joe’s face shuttered for a half-second, but his expression smoothed over into what _he_ probably thought looked like apathy. Again, David fought off a smile; Joe’s face was always like an open book, and the older man never seemed to _not_ be smouldering over some little thing. Maybe he was going insane, but David had always found it weirdly cute. If he wanted to _really_ ensure his death, he might’ve even gone ahead and referred to it as a pout. That’s what it was really; Liebgott was never not _pouting_.

“The fuck ‘r you smilin’ for?” 

Oops, guess he’d failed. He wiped the grin off bodily with his palm and tried affecting an air of seriousness. Clearing his throat, his sky blue eyes rolled heavenwards as he searched for the right phrasing:

“I wanted to...apologize, for my actions the other night. It was inappropriate of me-” 

Joe prickled instantly: “Jesus- don’t you talk to me like I’m some skirt, Webster! I-you, it’s not like you took my innocence or-” 

He seemed to register the words he was saying and his mouth shut with an audible clack. And David watched in fascination as _Joe Liebgott_ blushed like an embarrassed little boy, shuffling his feet and looking away from him. He’d always thought a healthy flush looked particularly fetching on pale skin, the rosy color bloomed oh so beautifully, in his opinion at least. He continued to watch in baffled silence as Joe began to babble to fill the quiet: 

“Not that- I’m not- and you, you didn’t… we didn’t- Look, nothing happened! Okay?” 

His ears got much redder than the rest of his face, and David let himself think it freely now. _Cute_. It was fucking endearing, the way Joe continued to huff and puff, brown eyes fluttering around the dirty alley. He felt a surge of warmth in his chest, feeling perhaps a little gluttonous as he soaked in the way dark brown locks shone in the dimming sunlight. With Joe refusing to acknowledge David’s existence, he was free to admire the man to his heart's content, appreciative that he was here in the flesh.

A sharp, defined collarbone peeked out of Joe’s jacket where the hem had gone askew, and long, pretty fingers toyed with his dog tags subconsciously. His memory recalled how those fingers felt: not rough, like he’d expect of a man so used to heavy artillery, but soft as silk. David recognized, obviously, that Joe was plenty manly. He acted with far too much aggression and seemed to compulsively throw his weight around (not that he had much to speak of). But physically, there seemed to be a disconnect. Joseph Liebgott had been sculpted into a thin, delicate form that clashed harshly with his mean attitude and meaner words. Call a spade a spade, but Joe was _pretty_. Handsome, sure, but pretty was more accurate. Pretty evoked images of sculptures and artwork to David; something finely crafted and meant to be….

To be appreciated. 

“Do you have any memory…? Of anything you did last night?” Anger quickly bled into concern across Liebgott’s delicate features, much to David’s confusion: 

“Do? Shit, David, I...I didn’t do somethin’ stupid, did I? ‘S that what’s got you all upset?” 

_Wait, what?_ Now Joe thought he’d-ugh- taken _David’s_ innocence?!? Any fondness he had for the shorter faded into irritation. God, he could be thick sometimes! He fought the urge to shake Joe, less inclined to fall through with this now that he knew how easily he could push Joe around. Hypothetically, of course. Although…

“Wha- I’m not upset, Joe!”

“The fuck you’re not!”

“But, really, I’m not-”

“You’re shoutin’ in my face, Webster! Clearly, _something’s_ got yer panties in a bunch!” 

He could feel his face heating up as his anger built, ticking upwards the more they shouted at one another: 

“My p- You know what? Fine, _yes,_ I am upset! Because you refuse to talk to me about what happened!”

“NOTHIN’-”

“WE SHARED A FUCKING BED, JOE!” 

Joe surged forward anxiously and covered David’s mouth with his palm, and oh, touching was so much worse. In his haste, Joe’s body was pressing into his own from chest to thigh, and David tasted the acrid nicotine tang and salt of his fingers. As Joe hissed in a tense, barely-audible voice, their noses nearly brushed. 

“Are you _trying_ to get us both shot?? Shut the fuck up with that shit!” 

He waited patiently until Joe finally removed his hand before saying: “So, you _do_ acknowledge that something happened.”

He practically felt Joe holding himself back from smacking him, but David didn’t back down. Once more leaning his head back against the bricks, he stuck out his chin pointedly and kept his lips pressed together. Quick, clever eyes took in the picture of defiance he made, and something shifted in Joe. They landed on his lips heavily, blatantly, and David felt the backs of his knees starting to sweat. A sly, wide smirk stretched across Joe’s full mouth that made David feel small somehow, but he couldn’t tell if he hated that as much as he ought to. They were already so close, but Joe shifted his weight so that both sides were pressing him back into the rough, dirty wall rather than just the one. He could only follow along helplessly as he watched Joe’s hand come up to cage him in on the sides of his head, and what the holy hell was going _on??_

“So, what if we did? Hm, David? Would that upset you, if I _did_ remember?”

He scoffed but it sounded weak even to his own ears, “Yeah right, Lieb. You were asleep.” 

Joe hummed, pressing impossibly closer, until he could feel just the barest scrape of chapped lips up against his own, near-black eyes boring holes into David that shone with a delicious mischievousness that had him shivering: 

“Guess you’ll never know!” He said brightly, pulling away like he hadn’t pasted himself to David’s whole body with ease, and with a wink, he was gone. 


	2. Even More Difficult to Get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are weird and tense between Joe and David after the prisoner patrol from Hell. But something has to give, right? But holy hell, did it have to be Landsberg levels of give???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /smashes forehead into wall/ why...can't I just....make a ONESHOT!!! Anyways, here's part 2 of...possibly four at this point... 
> 
> also s/o to bonni aka iconoclasticgentleman who pointed out Speirs/Webster which is an...intriguing concept to say the least. There's a pretty meaty scene with those two in here <333

After Joe had freaked the ever-loving shit out of David, they didn’t talk. Of course they didn’t. They  _ were  _ both men, after all, unless some of the meaner recruits were to be believed. David  _ hated  _ that; how some of the new guys would hear Luz razzing Web, and dogpile on it in much less joking tones. He highly suspected that Cobb had been bad mouthing his name to as many guys as he could, and that notion on top of all of the  _ other  _ shit falling to pieces around him had David snapping. 

David himself was a glass too deep into whatever shitty wine Chuck had scrounged up for him (he was growing to appreciate his platoon members more...with a notable exception of course) when he unfortunately caught the hate-filled man in the act. He swore under his breath, swaying ever-so slightly on his feet as he marched over to the other side of the pub, abruptly ending his conversation with Heffron and Malarkey without even considering how rude that might be. The kid listening to Cobb’s slurring couldn’t have been more than 20 years tops, and yet he was evidently old enough to feel bone-deep hatred. He flinched as he saw it fill the boy’s eyes the longer Cobb spout off about David getting out of everything and being rich and rubbing his stupid “bourquise” upbringing into everyone’s faces. With every disgusted, mean word, David felt his peripheral vision fading to red and his tongue felt hot and numb in his mouth. But it was when Cobb’s narrative switched from calling him a pussy (which David was man enough to admit, he kind of was) to calling him a faggot that he couldn’t stop the fury that scorched the back of his teeth and tongue from unleashing itself: 

“Have something you’d like to say to me, Cobb?”

Funnily enough, when David got drunk, he always ended up sounding  _ more  _ polite and proper. He hated that tendency now, even though it had aided him in many a bar fight in the past. Narrowed, black eyes zeroed in on David and David suddenly ached to taste blood in his mouth, feel his knuckles ache as they glanced off of bony flesh. 

“What, you think you can take him, hom-”

“Fuck off, kid.” 

Cobb dismissed the recruit softly, and yes,  _ yes  _ his mind buzzed at the prospect of violence. David wasn’t some “pacifistic pansy” like everybody thought. He had a scar on the underside of his jaw which was always hidden by the strap of his helmet from a broken beer bottle. In fact, he’d be willing to bet he had Joe pretty matched in terms of fist fights. But fuck that;  _ fuck Joe.  _ Cobb’s blurry, hazy eyes slipped an oily path down David’s body, and about twenty things clicked together at once.  _ Oh, of  _ **_fucking_ ** course. 

“Sure you wanna do that, professor? Might not come back from that hospital this time.” 

A pale tongue slid along paler, thin lips and David felt like vomiting on his boots.  _ Homophobic _ ,  _ bigoted,  _ **_hypocritical_ ** _ chauvinistic pig!  _ David knew that half of the reasons men had for picking fights with him stemmed from some ugly, self-hating place. One man had nearly beat David half to death for  _ smiling  _ in his direction. The way Cobb was looking at him, mouth quirking in a half-smirk, it reminded David so succinctly of what Joe had pulled not many days ago, and the thought put something sour and cold in his gut. 

His fist swung viciously out of nowhere, crunching Cobb’s long, thin nose into his long, thin face, and David watched it happen like an out of body experience. Blood spurt thick and hot and the feeling was.... Horrifying and gratifying all at once. Something animal and primal deep in his heart roared for more, and his body twisted to deliver an accompanying blow to Cobb’s soft belly. The loud expel of pain made David’s ears ring, and was loud enough that it reached past their little corner. Not that David knew that, or that he even fucking cared. Strong, thick arms suddenly looped around his middle and hauled him backwards, and even though they were clearly way too large and well-defined to be Lieb’s, that was his brain’s instant conclusion. And so, he yowled and fought against the iron grip like an alley cat, pulling uselessly at his captor and screaming his head off.

“FUCK OFF, JOE! LET ME GET COURT MASHALLED; I DON’T FUCKING CARE!!” 

Like clockwork, tears burst from his eyes and carved molton streaks down his flaming face, but still he was hauled out of the pub as though the anonymous bicep owner hadn’t even heard him. He was finally released, and spun around dizzyingly, and his heart jumped up into his throat as he came face to face with hard, mossy-green eyes. 

“Not Liebgott.” Speirs spoke in that measured, stone cold tone of voice that made his life flash before his eyes. Holy Shit, was Ron going to shoot him right there, in the middle of the street?? He suddenly felt extremely sober. 

“Sir, I’m sor-”

“Shut up.” 

David could only watch in heart-pounding silence as Speirs nonchalantly fished a cigarette out of a crumpled pack, lighting it and not looking at David whatsoever. He knew they were just rumors...he knew, he wasn’t THAT stupid! But...still... 

“Look, Webster-” he must’ve jolted at the usage of his own name, because something oddly  _ soft  _ shifted in Ron’s eyes, “yeah, I know your name. You’re one of my men; might as well get used to it. Anyways, Cobb’s a prick, I get it, but don’t go throwing everything you’ve done here away for him. Ya hear me? He ain’t worth it. None of them are.” 

His words were nihilistic as ever, and yet somehow David knew they were meant to be uplifting; an olive branch. He was suddenly very much cognizant of the tears drying in sticky lines down his cheeks, and moved to hastily wipe them away. Shame thunked like a boulder inside of him as Speirs’ keen eyes followed the motion:

“Shouldn’t waste your tears on him either. Trust me, kid, he wouldn’t want you to.” 

David’s back shot up like a spring as the gentle (for Ron, anyways) voice registered, rearing at his intestines and yanking at them like puppet’s strings. Ron wasn’t talking about Cobb anymore, was he? But...how? How could he know? A dozen images suddenly flickered like pages of a novel disturbed by a strong breeze: Liebgott being one of the only men to accept Speirs’ pro-offered smokes, Speirs pulling Joe aside by his elbow as the idiot got into another heated debate with his “enemy of the hour”, Ron just repeating Joe’s last name in a clipped tone and that’s somehow all it takes to get Joe’s smart mouth shut. 

“Nobody said anything to me, Webster, relax. I’m just perhaps not as stupid as you boys may think I am.” 

“We don’t! ...Think you’re stupid, at least. I wasn’t at Foy, so… I wasn’t there but, the other men, they think you’re a hero. Based off what I’ve heard about Lt. Dike….a lot more good men might’ve died that day.” 

God, David wished Lip wasn’t still bedridden; he felt like he was going to crack underneath Ron’s intense stare, and he wasn’t too sure why he’d even said it. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that Speirs had only seen David for a handful of seconds yet somehow knew who he was. Or, just an overall gratitude towards the man who’d stopped David from really fucking up his life back there. Could’ve even just been the vaguely wounded look in Ron’s eyes that he wasn’t aware crept in when he observed E Company from a far off distance. But, probably, it was for a completely different reason that he was loath to address.

Joe. Of course, always Joe. In just the few weeks since David’s been back, he’s witnessed Ron-Speirs- calming Liebgott down with a few hushed words, a cautious hand on the untethered young man’s shoulder. David is certain that Joe would probably be in much worse shape after Bastogne had he and Speirs not formed their strange, little kinship of theirs. Once two of Lieb’s closest friends- Toye and Guarnere- had been wiped out in one fell swoop, he had a difficult time imagining how badly Liebgott must’ve taken it. Probably not as bad as Malarkey (poor fucker), but not by much, he’d surmise. He wondered, had he been able to slip out of the ward that first time he’d attempted it, would his presence have calmed Joe any? Could his lame attempts at cracking jokes or asking Joe about life in San Francisco have been enough to heal a bit of his still-open wounds? 

No, more than likely, it would’ve kindled a blazing fury in the other soldier’s heart, of biblical proportion. Visibly, the notion made his entire body sag; he was just so  _ tired  _ of Joe’s hatred towards him. Speirs sharp gaze watched the movement, and finally those green eyes slipped down to the cobblestone: 

“Men like us...we need to hear it with our own ears, David. He knows. But still, sometimes that’s not enough.” 

_ Men like us.  _ David knew he wasn’t talking about Speirs and himself. And what exactly in the hell  _ was  _ his lieutenant talking about? The older man’s eyes seemed fogged like glass on a frigid winter’s day, looking so far off that David wondered if he’d managed to reach another time and place entirely. Perhaps he wasn’t talking about David and Joe at all. 

“The feeling goes both ways, sir.” He said gently. 

Speirs’ snapped his head up, dark hair windswept and made him resemble the wild thing the men outside of Easy Company whispered about. He quickly explained before Ron could whip out his sidearm, 

“But, there’s other ways to say it, if words aren’t your strongest suit. Actions can speak 1’000 times as much as flowery, empty words.” 

The two men simply looked at one another, smoke curling lazily above their heads, and floating up into the grey, Austrian sky. Two completely polar opposite men, in morality and philosophy, recognizing that they were in parallel if not identical situations. Speirs nodded at him, and there was a modicum of respect in the gesture, and suddenly all of the snide comments from the other men broke apart like sea foam as the tides shifted inside David’s chest. Lieutenant Speirs respected him, and that meant David was good enough. 

* * * * 

As meaningful and impactful as Speirs’ pep talk was, something stony and untouchable kept David from approaching Joe. He’d foolishly elbow his way into the seat by Joe’s side during chow, only to be met by Liebgott’s most unaffected, blank stare. Some of the men would laugh, which was awful, and more understanding men like Roe and Grant would look away, which was ten times worse. Something taut and tense was forming behind Joe’s warm, brown eyes, and it had almost nothing to do with David. He felt powerless, overwhelmed and bewildered by a sudden desire to comfort the bastard; to chase the shadows that hung like bodies from the gallows underneath his eyes. It was stupid. Joseph Liebgott was a grown ass man, and what’s more, a grown ass man who detested Webster and liked to fuck with his head for sport. Nonetheless, along with the other men who Lieb had somehow managed to elbow and snarl and bitch his way into their hearts, David watched his slow crumbling warily from the edges. Waiting for something to give. 

_ And oh, did something give.  _

On April 11th, tucked away in the thickest part of the German forests, Easy Company stumbles upon something that David will never forget; something that will wake him up in the middle of the night dripping with cold sweat for the rest of his life. In spite of his privileged, Connecticut upbringing, David had in fact experienced some of the cruelties of mankind. His father beating his mother (only once in front of him, but probably a few times afterwards), a lover of his disappearing from his usual street corner and being found floating in the tepid rivers days later etc. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to Landsberg.

He watches it unfurl around him numbly, even as his boots propel him through the gates, even as the ungodly stenches hit his nose, and make his vision swim. A chapped, trembling mouth brushes his cheek and he can barely feel it. Like a ghost, he stops in the center of it all, and cannot make his mouth form words nor his limbs unhinge. An unknown, omnipotent force turns his face and finds Liebgott in the crowd of dozens of men. Winters is beckoning him over, gesturing to one of the prisoners who hardly seems alive save for a sorrowful burning in his blue eyes. And staring at Joe, watching him trying to maintain his composure, listening to the shaking man respectfully, and watching as something the other says snaps something like a twig in his eyes finally has David curling forwards and heaving on his scuffed up boots. An anonymous, broad palm (glancing upwards reveals it to be Talbert) rubs at the aching muscles in his back as his whole body attempts to exert the pain out, but the caring touch does nothing for him. This will  _ destroy  _ Liebgott. Hell, it’s destroying  _ him. _

__ It only gets worse, the ground sinking beneath him (Lipton makes him sit down, at some point he cannot recall) as his eyes refuse to close against the hellscape before him. O’Keefe staring into a weak fire and looking like he may never move again, an elderly man kissing Janovic’s cheeks and weeping, George Luz swaying from where he’s stood on the outskirts of the camp and reaching out for something that was no longer there at his side. The rattling of a tin shed opens and he knows without hearing Nixon’s assessment. He’s one of the first to volunteer to round up all the remaining food in the surrounding area, and he very nearly kills a german baker. Instead he spits in his ruddy, trembling, jowly face, shoves his pistol up against his temple, and wishes he had. 

And then,  _ then,  _ with a hunk of bread still extended towards the grasping hands of the Jewish prisoners,  __ the doctor comes and tells them they must do something impossible:  _ we have to lock them back in. We cannot give them any more food.  _ Hearing it from his periphery is enough to have David beating his fist into the rusted gates, and Babe murmurs a vague noise of agreement that just makes him want to be sick all over again. Doc Roe pulls his hands carefully away from where they’re white knuckling the bars, tossing some unconvincing line about tetanus his way, but it’s enough to get him turned back towards the men. 

“What the-” 

Gene shushes Babe none too gently as Joe Liebgott stands from the back of the jeep, addressing the crowd at large.  _ “His german’s as good as mine”  _ bounces around David’s skull and oh Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, that can’t actually be making him- 

The crowd of malnourished, abused, and terrified men burst into cries of horror, and Lieb’s shouts begin to break up even as he pushes through the pleading and the protests. David wants to tear down the fucking sky, go into the nearest German home, and shoot every last one of them in the head. He wants to scream and strangle Hitler himself and sink the whole fucking planet into the very bottom of the sea. After what feels like decades, Liebgott bows his head, and his beautiful face crumples into an agonized grimace as tears fall freely down his cheeks. He wants to look away; seeing Joseph “Mean Fucker” Liebgott crying feels alien and downright wrong. But he can’t bring himself to; he can’t bring himself to take Liebgott out of his sights for more than a second, lest his own tears break free in front of all these other men. 

“Webster-” 

He pushes Heffron’s outstretched hands  _ away  _ from him, and stumbles like a blind man back into the woods. He cannot bear to see another human being right now; God help him, he has no idea what he’d do. 

He walks and walks and walks back into where 2nd platoon is billeted for the time being, blisters bloodying the insides of his grimy, military issued socks, but he cannot find it within himself to care. As he enters their post, Luz says his last name like David’s a ghost, and dimly he realizes the sky had gone from blue to orangey-pink and he hadn’t even noticed. He must’ve been wandering for hours. He wonders how many of his men in arms thought he’d gone completely AWOL. He nods at George to acknowledge the other man, but still his dry lips remain sealed. He has nothing to say, for the first time in his life.

His feet are pulsing, the muscles in his stomach and back still aching from his violent puking, and his throat is burning from choking back tears and stomach acid, and yet his body does not take him towards the house. In a trance, he shuffles until he finds himself with his back flattened against the back of a partially-destroyed brick building. Rough brick and stone jab into his flesh, reminding him of the last time he’d been pressed up against a brick wall, and his fingers tremble so hard that it takes him three tries to light his cigarette. He smokes like he’s dying, imagining the poison entering his lungs and flushing out the rage and the horror, and this is how Liebgott finds him. Joe chuckles half-heartedly, waving smoke away as if he can’t see David through it, and stops less than a foot away from his side. 

“There you are. Fuck, thought Speirs was gonna have to send a scouting party after you, Web.” 

Joe almost sounds normal, save for a vague scratchy quality to his voice, and David refuses to look at him.  _ Joe is putting on a brave face for  _ **_him_ ** _? It’s not fucking fair; I’m such a selfish prick.  _ Joe clicks his tongue like a disapproving parent, and long, silky fingers brush against his own as he removes the cherry from between David’s shaky digits before he can burn himself. Still staring at absolutely nothing, he listens as Joe grinds it with the toe of his boot, not exactly sure what this is. 

“What is-” 

“You really oughta take better care of yourself, Web; wouldn’t want to wind up in that hospital again.” 

It’s lacking in the usual mean edge that David’s come to crave from Liebgott at this point, especially now when he wants to flog himself for merely being the same species as the monsters who created Landsberg, as well as apparently dozens of other camps just like it. Joe is being  _ nice  _ to him, the one fucking time he doesn’t want him to, and it makes David want to scream and stomp his feet like a petulent toddler, cuss him out and slam his fist into Joe’s open, soft-looking face. 

“I nearly killed a man today. Kraut.” 

He throws in afterwards, wanting to see something change in Joe’s face. He wants Joe to tell him he has no right to be upset; to snap at him and put him in his place. Joe, of course, can never give David what he wants. 

“You didn’t then?” 

“No.” David grits out simply, hating every fiber of Joe’s being and his own as tears burn at the corners of his eyes. 

“Good.” 

The noisy, shuddery sob is so sudden that it startles both of them, David’s hand flying to cover his mouth, mortified. Just one simple word and he cannot stop himself. He sobs, his whole body wracking with them, feeling like a very small child again. It’s uncontrollable, loud and ugly, snot dripping from his nostrils and one of his hands knotting in his own hair.  _ When did he lose his helmet? Is it laying in the woods somewhere? Was he even wearing his helmet at Landsberg?  _

“Aw, Christ, Web.” 

There’s a tug on the back of his neck, and he fights it for all of two seconds before he allows himself to be crushed into Joe’s chest. A sharp chin digs into the thick of his dark, dirty hair and David in his rattled mind can’t help but note that Joe has to crane his neck just a bit in order to properly tuck David’s face into his throat. He breathes into the slightly chilly pale skin, soaking in sweat and dirt, musk, and what surprisingly smells somewhat like cologne to his overclocked senses. His chest gives a fond little squeeze at the unexpected frivolity, another side of Joe that he tucks away to think about the next time they’re being ambushed by artillery and mortars.  _ He doesn’t like smelling bad.  _ It’s one of the most astonishingly human things Joe has shown him thus far, and he doesn’t ruin the moment by speaking. And if he feels hot, salty tears soaking into the crown of his curls, he doesn’t mention that either. 

He’s unsure how long they spent that night simply clutching one another, silent except for the one instance in which a particularly violent sob has him rocking up against Joe’s solid chest, and David’s name slips out from Joe’s lips unbidden. His  _ proper  _ name, and spoken in the yiddish inflection that David remembers having to look up after reading a translated Odyssey for class. He hardly dares to breathe in fear of shattering the moment, but the low, tender word is enough to soothe him somewhat. It’s all he can think about, as he lays on the slightly less frigid wooden floorboards of what used to be a family room, and all he dreams about. 

After this, things finally begin to shift, the energy between them still crackling but lacking in a certain sharpness. Joe still refuses to call David by his first name, still teases Web, and makes crude remarks just to watch the younger man’s nose screw up primly. There’s a fondness now, almost like he’s too tired to continue the charade of loathing Webster, and he doesn’t seem to care how the rest of the company want to take that. Some still try to give David-Web, Webster, Harvard Brat- shit, and Joe’s not crazy enough to try and defend the dickhead’s honor, but he  _ will  _ roll his eyes unimpressed. Almost like he thinks he could torment Webster better, and he undoubtedly  _ could.  _

He overhears a tale from Malarkey one afternoon about how Liebgott and Cobb came to blows; no one knows for sure what the two paratroopers were fighting about. Knowing them, and their history, they could’ve just decided they both wanted to knock someone’s teeth in. And remarkably, somehow, David was no longer Joe’s number one pick for that. Then again,if he thinks about it, Joe never actually  _ did  _ try to rough him up. Oh sure, Liebgott wasn’t past a little harsh shoving into the occasional tree or building; he was still HIMSELF. But even that childish sort of behavior had lessened considerably after Landsberg. And David was such a crazy bastard that he couldn’t help but sort of miss it. 

Do you know that phrase: be careful what you wish for? Well, David was about to regret ever thinking those words. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translation notes for the obligatory Gene Speaking French:
> 
> "C'est bon, mon garçon, ça va. C'était un accident ... juste un accident" - (roughly) "It's okay, sweet boy, I'm fine. It was an accident ... just an accident."
> 
> "Regarde-moi, ange." - "Look at me, angel."


End file.
